Ch. 6: Airhead Aino
Back to The Men in Brown When Dad came in from work he usually went on the computer or watched the evening news. Sometimes if he wasn’t too tired he’d play baseball or tell them stories. They were outside when they heard him yelp and raced into the living room clamouring to be told what just happened. “Wait, it’ll be on in a second.” “Honey,” called Mom, “you know I don’t want them watching the news!” “Well, this is special.” Mom subsided and went on with the dishes. The boys waited avidly. Sure enough the announcer said, “And in world news, the mystery riders continue to be reported in different locations. Eyewitnesses describe a small host of mounted warriors in medieval gear, apparently accompanied by ghosts, led by a group of kings some of which are nine feet high. These mysterious riders are seen sometimes at dawn or when the moon rises. No satellite footage of them has yet been recorded, and video footage is unconvincing to date. They have been spotted so far in almost every country of northern Europe, often in places especially associated with legends of sleeping heros. Speculations are rife on whether this is a UFO or a prank band of re-enacters, but authorities have repeatedly denied any activity is taking place.” Stephen and Chris looked at each other and raced out of the house. When they were safely out of earshot deep in the tangled brush among the ruined trucks, they both started babbling at the top of their lungs to each other. “That is so cool! Your Dreams were real!--Well, duh, of course they were!—They’ve been SEEN! Actually SEEN!—Re-enacters, oh my gosh and golly I’m going to split hahahahaha” “But seriously, have you seen any more of them, those riders I mean?” said Stephen. “Hooo yeah.” said Chris. “I totally forgot about it, with waiting for Root and the first day of new school, but last night was just stuffed with them. Either I’m catching up on what’s been going on, or old Wayham was like super-busy last night.” He grew serious, and his voice took on a strange haunting quality as he called up the memory. “The sound of the horn echoed like a dream through the fog of my dream. It sounded three times. Up out of the earth of the mossy hill I was facing burst a great band of armed men; there was something somehow Irish about them, the flamboyant way things were shaped, the vivid colors, kind of reminded me of those tales of Cuchulainn in those Bantry Bay books. Furs and leather helmets and round bossed shields, splendid and barbaric at once. And the leader said in a great voice, The Dord Fiann has sounded thrice. The Fiana stand awakened. Fionn mac Cumhail saith this, whom is he who blew it, whom is he who holds it, whom is he that stands before to summon us forth? ''And Wayham King stepped out of the mist, and he said, I summon you, in the name of the King! '' “And then the land changed, the way it does in dreams you know, and I stood amid wild hills with ragged cliffs of grey and green, and there was a deep pit hung with drooping vegetation and ringed with walls of broken stone, and up the vertical walls horsemen were riding, and they were dressed for hunting, with boar-spears and bear-spears and bows and quivers hung about them; a host of really horrible-looking hounds raced up the walls beside them, utter black with eyes like coals and demonic wolfish smiles. And as one man they said,'' Who hath blown the hunting horn, to awake and arouse the Huntsmen of the Henhole? '' And somehow, I felt it was hundreds of miles away and yet at the same time, I was seeing a strange mountain forest of deep old pines, and three men dressed like William Tell were walking out of it, except they were William Tell, because they said as one, Who has sounded the horn? Who has awoken the Three Tells? '' And then scenes began passing before me in strange succession, and I saw ghost after ghost rise out of the ground, one from the sea, one out of the pass of a bare broken mountain, one from the grass of an old barley field amid beautiful steep blue mountains, and another from a strange wild land. They spoke their names as they were woken, in strange languages, the slow broad Old English and the strong stern yet liquid Spanish and the slushy harsh Slavic tongues: Harold King, King Roderic last of Goths, Jecminek the Barley King, Vytautas the Great. From out of the morning fog a lone king in Spanish plate armour rode: Sebastian of Portugal. There was a broad river with ugly cities clustered around it, and out of the water and standing on water a huge man rose, with the ears of a bear, and a boat that was bearing down on him he caught with one hand and thrust it away: I mean, the guy must have super-strength. His name was Lacpleis, from Daugua river. And all of them as they arose demanded who had woken them, and at last I heard a single answer, a voice as huge as the sea from thousands of men speaking as one: '' The King commands it. “And I saw the army, riding through the fog, some with glowing weapons and some with glowing eyes, and around the King there were riding a whole troop of kings now, almost twenty or so: and one bore a great black banner, and somehow I knew this was because the true banner had yet to be found. And—um, what else was there—oh yeah, there were these two big mountains all tropical jungle, in the Phillipines I felt, and they were leaning up against each other, and now and then they shuddered as if something within was trying to escape. Then I saw the ghosts streaming forward and prying apart the mountain, shouting, Come forth, Bernado Carpio!” “It should be really interesting, tomorrow’s lessons.” said Stephen, pulling his raincoat closer. “I’m hungry. I wanna go in.” “I can’t wait to hear more about that Vainny-moynen guy.” “You garble that name any more and Root’ll make us pronounce it correctly twenty times in a row.” “Arrrgghh.” The next day was so cold and raw you would have thought it was April. Root had a scarf when he came. “The first week of June is always cold and rainy over here.” he grumbled. He spent some time showing Mom the curriculum he had designed from the test results, then sat the boys down and began lessons. When it was time for literature, the boys demanded another story. “About Vanna—how did you say that ?” “Vay-nahy-moiur-nen.” said Root. “Yes, I did promise you the tale of Aino, didn’t I.” “Why did Vay-nay-mornen ask ransom of that guy, anyway?” Chris wanted to know. Root replied, of course, by breaking into chant. “Last name men what hold they dearest '' ''First name they what can best part with '' ''First the thing they hold most lightly '' ''Last the thing that hoped to keep they '' ''Thou hast named thy weapons firstly '' ''Thou hast listed thy possessions '' ''Next to last thy gold and corn-land '' ''Last thou named thy sister Aino '' ''For this cause I sing thee free now '' ''This alone hast earned thee freedom '' ''Get thee to thy distant dwelling '' ''There prepare my bride for wedding.” '' He paused. “Those were the words of Väinämöinen, which do not live on in the Kalevala. But I remember them. He crossed his legs and began to speak, in normal tones at first, slowly falling into a strange dreamlike murmer which became a rising singsong, not the powerful chant he usually sang in but close to it. “Now did '' vaka vanha Väinämöinen, steadfast ancient Väinämöinen, lend his steps to Lapland’s forests, bend his thoughts to maiden fairest, whose white hand was his now promised. From far afield he watched the maiden, watched her as she sang at weaving, watched her with her gold hair flowing, free to the wind in Lapland’s springtime. He heard from far off Youkahainen bring to home his news full bitter, news of his humiliation, of who it was his sister given. And listening carefully Väinämöinen, steadfast, ancient, from the forest, eager to see her reaction, to see what heart might lie in maiden.” Scorn and bitter sorrow crept into Root’s voice. “She wept and raged, she scorned and postured, against being bride of Väinämöinen, whom she thought a cruel old dotard. Still he listened from afield, hoping to in her discern some small spark of womanhood, something in her of matureness, something that was not of vainness. But all he heard were her lamentings, that she must give up her maiden freedom, give up the chores of maidenhood, that she must become responsible and grow up into a woman: she announced she would be girl forever, ever to dwell in home of mother. Saddened by her foolish nature, her brother indeed resembling, Väinämöinen cursed his fortune, for while he watched he had to her fallen, he now loved the fickle maiden. “He watched for her to go birch-picking, to see what she would say to him if she met him face to feature, saw he was no helpless dotard, saw he was a mighty hero, strongly muscled bearded hero. He sang upon his own appearance, sang him younger, sang him darker, till the white was gone from beard and only grey in streaks now marred his hair, sang his beard all neatly braided, sang his garments into splendor. He sat him down upon a boulder, white his leggings, his tunic russet, gold and silver sewn within it. Now here Aino came toward him, binding tassels from the birch-trees, binding brooms from tender twigs. When he spoke she started badly, for she had not seen him waiting until she was right before him. Gold her hair, with gold adorned, earrings, rings and golden necklace, swung and flashed within the sunlight. “ ‘I am sorry, I did not see you.’ she said to him, laughing fair within the sunlight. ‘Who are you, old man in russet? Why sit perched like a grey squirrel upon your mossy boulder-stone?’ ‘Far have come to gaze on maiden, to see the one of matchless beauty whose fame has reached into Wainola. My name is one of whom you heard, no doubt heard ill from thy good brother.’ ‘Art thou then ancient Väinämöinen, who comes to claim me like a prize?’ she flashed, and if fair had she been aforetime, more fair still she when anger-flushed. “He held up his hands and shook his head. ‘Thy brother may have thy hand promised, but I am no senseless fool, to rush headlong here in arrogance, here to claim the hand of maiden. First I wished you to look upon me, before I came to mother’s door.’ “ ‘Now you see me, and I see you,’ she answered, and in her face she was considering, seeing the mighty hero’s thews, that here was no helpless dotard whose stay and prop she was to be, that here was a bearded hero not much older than her brother. So wonderful she looked in sunlight, with gold gleaming fresh upon her, that Väinämöinen spoke again. ‘Lovely art thou, crowned in sunlight, gold and rings upon thee gleaming.’ And seeing the flush of pleasure on her features, was emboldened to speak further. ‘Wear them well, O gorgeous Aino. Wear them not for other men, but wear them for me, O fairest maiden.’” Root’s face was hard and furrowed, as with the pain of some old memory: perhaps, thought Chris suddenly, he too had been in that situation. “But there was in her no substance, but there was in her all vainness, and she stripped in spiteful fury ring and trinket from her body, cast them down within the grass, tossed them wasteful in the forest, scorning him who sat before her, saying she would never marry, never grow up, never wear a ring or bangle if it meant she wore it for him.” “Then the ancient Väinämöinen, sadly angered, started singing. Sang her feet fast to the ground, sang the vines to creep around her, hold her fast till he had spoken. Then he got up and stood before her---“ The old man suddenly sprang to his feet, shaking the floor with a thud. His eyes flamed and burned within his old face: he was, for one awful moment, Väinämöinen himself. His chanting burst out, harsh, driving, filled with power. '' '' “Maiden, thou dost me injustice, '' ''Dost me what thou dost not know of. '' ''Dost a third thing, then another, '' ''Dost a fourth upon these others. '' ''Thou hast dared to mock my wooing '' ''Thou hast set my suit at nothing '' ''Thou hast my old heart now taken '' ''Stamped and spitten all upon it. '' ''Hadst thou good reason for rejection, '' ''I would thee have given freedom '' ''Taken my suit off thy burden '' ''Let thee go back to thy mother— '' ''Shallow-hearted, airhead Aino '' ''Fickle-hearted, shallow-minded '' ''Thou art worse than thy own brother '' ''In the injury thou dost me. '' ''I should sing thee into mire '' ''As I did unto thy brother '' ''Pay thy scorn with endless hatred '' ''Crush thee down against my anger '' ''But alas, I love thee dearly '' ''But alas, I love thee truly '' ''Thou art empt of aught but vainness '' ''Vanity thy only substance '' ''Hear the weird I lay upon thee '' ''Listen to the doom I bind thee '' ''Scorning me, shalt have no other '' ''Wandering in tears self-pitied '' ''Sunk and wallowed in thy own self '' ''Till in sorrow thou learn wisdom.” '' “What happened then?” said Stephen. “He sang her free,” Root answered, sitting back down, “and she ran wailing home to her mother. ‘Cause enough for weeping, mother, good the reason for my mourning.” His voice took on a fake falsetto. “Mommy, I don’t have any rings cause I threw them all away cause old Väinämöinen said they were gifts from him.’ The mother and the family tried to talk some sense into her, but Aino went moping around in lofty lamentation as if she was a tragic heroine. The songs give verse after verse of high-sounding, noble lamentation with mighty words and candences; and what is the cause of all this weeping, what the cause of this great sorrow? She doesn’t want to get married! Oh, the tragedy! Oh, the horror! What a sad and tragic tale!” The boys were howling with laughter. “Finally her mother threatened to send for Väinämöinen to claim his bride and hand her over to him. So Aino stole her mother’s bangles, dressed herself in her finery, and wandered through the Northland forest, bewailing ‘Is there no sorrow like unto mine!’ For there was no doom upon her, he had only spoke foretelling, knowing full well of her nature and the things she would then do. Thus at last she fell a victim to the vicious water-maidens, who showed themselves to her in swimming on a rock of rainbow colors. Aino laid aside her garments, swimming out to that great rock. And the boulder moved beneath her, bore her dreamily still singing down into the weedy depths. There they changed her to a fish.” “So she died?” said Chris unsympathetically. “There is an old story that seems to have been tacked on to this one, where it is most out of character.” said Root. “In that tale a man lost his young and lovely wife, and sought the help of Väinämöinen. The sage instructed him to go to a certain lake and look behind a rock of fishbone wrinkles. Behind this he would find fishing gear, nets of spun and woven copper, fishhooks all were wrought of silver, fishpoles were of banded gold, inside a magic boat of copper. With this he was bidden to fish and drag, up and down the lonely water, until he caught a fish of colors, and this fish he must kiss while his dear wife’s name speaking. The lover found the gear as promised, and he trolled the lake all day and night. Three days had passed and he grew faint, when he caught a fish of rainbow color, and forgetting all but his own hunger he took his knife to flay the fish. It leaped from his hand back to the water, and there it spoke with voice of woman: ‘I am thy departed beloved, I was made to herewith linger that thou might yet win me back. But thou wert ever small of wisdom, who fished for me for three days running, yet did not know me when you caught me.’ And the man besought her to return, preparing his net again to cast; but her fish-form faded, her faint voice wailed, ‘It cannot be, it is not so; one chance alone wert thou permitted, and I in no more form may linger, but must now in haste depart ye!’ And the husband bewailed and lamented the passing of his store of wisdom, and fished the lake and fished again with no more fish within the net.” “That’s so sad.” said Chris. “Is that what happened to Aino?” asked Stephen. “Not quite.” answered Root. “The Kalevala says that fisherman was Väinämöinen himself; but that is a corruption, that is not the story that I know. In fact, the entire Aino story as told in the Kalevala seems to me to have originated as a mock-tragedy, with the singers being fully aware of the silliness of having Aino lament in great and noble lines like Deirdre of Ireland (who really did have reason for lamenting, with her husband and bothers-in-law murdered) about how tragic it was that she threw away her rings like a spoiled brat, much like whoever singer has to play the verses of Youkahainen. But of course the irony was lost on later generations, with the rise of this thing you call Sufferage and the heresy of Feminism. “But to tell you the true fate of Aino. Väinämöinen, old and steadfast, waited south in Kalevala, sent the birds and beasts to watch her, hoping to see in her wisdom, see her grow from her self-pity. But the creatures brought him word instead of Aino’s drowning and transforming; and sorrowfully he sang himself there, and sung up then the boat of copper, sang for himself the nets and fishhooks, hooks of gold and rods of silver. Singing still he fished the waters, sang him water when he thirsted, sang him food when he was hungered. Three long days he trolled the waters, and on the third a fish of magic found he flopping in the nets. Then the ancient sage magician was full glad of her condition, for he had found airhead Aino. Sang he her back to her body, sang he fishness off her figure, sang he raiment upon her, jewels and bangles gold and silver. And Aino looked at Väinämöinen, who had given her in truth now all, and she could not just tear these off without tearing off her very life: and then she her folly recognized, and hung her head and fought no longer but gave consent to be his wife. “But alas their union fated was to be unconsummated, for as Väinämöinen and his maiden, listless, defeated, on saddle before him, rode across the inland seahead on the way to Kalevala, there to be wed in Wainola, on the magic horse of Osinen which rode on water as on land, from the shore young Youkahainen smarting with humiliation, who had heard his sister perished and blamed the wizard for it causing, stood with hate within his heart. He took the longbows that the wizard had despised for his dear ransom, made new arrows for that longbow, steeped them in the blood of serpents, steeped them in the adder-venom. ‘I will slay the son of Kalevala, slay the wizard of Wainola, with the longbow he despised. Then alone in all the Northland will there be a single singer, be no rival of Youkahainen.’ He had gone and hunted long, following his magic tokens, following runes carved onto bone-shards: now he stood, and far was distance, and the wizard was escaping, passing off beyond his reach. Took he then the magic longbow, raised and aimed the fated arrows. Shot the first, into the water. Shot the second far above him. But the third was fraught with hatred, and it was more truly aimed, and sped with songs of aiming, speeding, it pierced his sister Aino’s heart, instead of that of Väinämöinen. She died upon that very instant, ere the wizard could retard her, could take in breath for magic singing to her wounds rebuke and seal: nor in fish did her ghost linger, for to be caught in the waters. Filled with wrath and grief and fury, Väinämöinen stormed the seashore, rode upon the reckless wizard, who more arrows vainly speeded. But the fury of Väinämöinen turned the darts of Youkahainen; rode him down, held him bound, cast before him on the sand the body of his own dead sister. ''“See, thou wicked cursed archer, '' ''What thy bolts of speeded hatred '' ''Have brought down instead upon thee! '' ''Aino had I from death rescued, '' ''Her restored to her right body '' ''We were to be wed full swiftly, '' ''In my land of Kalevala, '' ''In the fair land of Vainola. '' ''Thou most stupid ill-aimed archer, '' ''Thou hast taken thine own sister! '' ''Shall not leave this shore yet living '' ''Shall not sing again in Lapland!’ '' ''Then the minstrel, Väinämöinen, '' ''Bends on hapless Youkahainen '' ''All the power of his chanting '' ''Great the thunder of his raging '' ''Sang his hands to burning fire, '' ''Sang his features molten metal, '' ''Sings his heart to ice yet beating '' ''As the torture mounteth swiftly '' ''Youkahainen can’t beseech him '' ''Cannot scream or beg for mercy '' ''For his feet are sung to flintstone '' ''For his flesh is sung asunder '' ''Till he passes to Tuoni '' ''Till is sent fast unto Hiisi '' ''Sorrowfully Väinämöinen '' ''Lifts the lifeless maiden’s body '' ''Bears it up upon his courser '' ''On his magic sea-wave walker '' ''On the way to Kalevala '' ''Buries her within Wainola.” Root ceased his chanting, and to the boys’ surprise tears shone in his furrowed eyes. “Okay, that really is sad.” said Chris. “I like it, though.” said Stephen. “I’m glad she was sorry.” “Are there any more tales of him?” “Many others.” answered Root. “But one is quite enough for one day. Now tell me. It comes to my ears that Wayham has been seen by men, with a host of warriors. What is he doing?” “Oh…um…well, it’s like this.” said Chris. It took him all the rest of the schoolday to relate the Dreams he had had. “Oh, and I forgot. I saw some more last night. I had like three at once, and I would wake up and notice it was dark out and then go back to sleep, and pop would come another one. The first was a lofty mountain, green and blue with rounded peaks notched with valleys, that stood alone in the clouds: I felt somehow that it was in Wales—“ “Plynlinon, I’m guessing.” said Root. “There is a legend of a giant bound asleep beneath it.” “There was. Wayham appeared with his army, and two of them, I think Carpio and Lacplesis, just slammed their fists on the slope and the whole mountainside cracked apart, and this huge manlike thing rose out of the ground. He must have been forty feet high. Earth and rocks were dangling from hair and clothing: it was gross. But Wayham said to him, ‘The King commands you.’ and the giant bowed and followed him.” “Merlin laid him asleep.” said Root. “And foretold that if he would live, he must yield to the King.” “There was another. This ancient German castle rose beside a river, and in a room far beneath it were men of huge size, seated around tables, their heads pillowed on their hands; they were in Viking armour, with round buckler-shields beside them and hauberks upon them, and conical Viking helms over long hair—but didn’t Vikings have horns?” “Ceremonial helms sometimes had horns.” said Root. “The average Scandinavian had only a conical helm. No horns. That is a genuine example of monkish interpolation. Sceptics, of course, are inclined to call most of Christianity a monkish interpolation, but there really are such things. But go on.” “One of them looked up.” said Chris. “He looked right into me. And he said in some harsh powerful tongue, What time is it on earth? '' And Wayham came sort of out of me, like I was a ghost, and he answered, '' It is sunset. Wake and march forth, Ogier the Dane, from Kronberg castle: the King commands thee! And Ogier answered, '' Who would lie sleeping when the King has returned?” '' “You mentioned three dreams.” said Root. “Yes, I forgot. I went to sleep again, and I was on a grassy plain, with odd hummocks in the grass; it had a strange atmosphere to it. It was a foggy morning, the sun had just risen and there was blue sky above it, and it was the sort of place you expect some awful and mysterious figure to emerge out of the mist from. Instead I heard this odd echoing voice, like something spoken long ago: All Ireland cannot govern this earl; then let this earl govern all Ireland. ''And then a horse came stepping warily out of the fog, as if its’ feet were sore, and Wayham King was standing there, he’d been there all along but I hadn’t seen him. And he said, ''Thy shoes are worn thin, Geroid Mor Fitzgerald. And the rider answered, They are thick enow yet. '' '' “Test them then, said Wayham, holding up a rather jittery black cat. The Earl took the cat, ignoring its’ squalls, and held it so that he could compare its’ ear with the shoes of his horse. '' Thou sayest rightly,'' he said, releasing the cat. It bolted into the fog. The shoes are worn to the exact thickness of a cat’s ear, though I rode only every seven years at May Day. I can ride no longer. I can sleep no longer beneath the Curragh of Kildare. And Wayham said, ''Nor shalt thou. For I am Wayham, son of Finteine, and I am the King returned. Dost thou own me? ''And the Earl knelt to him.” “Hmmm.” murmered Root. “The banner. Did you see the banner?” “Several times, but it’s always black.” “He has not found it yet.” Root said as if to himself. “Very well, it seems we are a little late today, and we still have English to do. I may have to assign you homework.” “Awww!” wailed the boys. “Don’t give me that; your parents wouldn’t think me effective if I didn’t assign more work than you could possibly do.” said Root acerbically. Then he gave one of his odd dry smiles, and they realized he’d been laughing at them. Back to The Men in Brown